Clan, Love, and Glory
by Levi Matthews
Summary: ON HOLD. Clan Triumph has become one of the most powerful forces in Ivalice. But when Marche and his friends are threatened by the very forces that hold the Clans together, will a broken man be able to bring his Clan to victory? Marche/Shara.
1. Prologue: Pride and Triumph

Pride and Triumph

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Final Fantasy or any associated games. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Square Enix.<strong>

**Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to You're Gonna Go Far Kid by The Offspring. God Bless The Offspring.**

**Warning: This story takes place after the events of FFTA and is therefore non-canon. You have been warned.**

* * *

><p>"Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and girls! People of all cities, cultures and races! Welcome, to the annual Clan Tourney Championship!"<p>

The crowd burst into raucous cheering. The arena, with its polished white stone and flowing gold banners, was the very heart of Ivalice that day, and it beat with such an excitement and fury as none had remembered in a long time. Confetti, flags, and shouts were brandished in feverish anticipation as the announcer's voice filled the arena, barely able to breach the sound that came from the audience.

"This is a glorious day for combat and entertainment!" the announcer bellowed, his voice nearly frantic with thrill. "Today, two Clans come together in combat and sportsmanship, competing for glory, riches, and the chance to become your new Clan Champions!"

The roar from the crowd was deafening. They wanted battle. They had come for the greatest fight of their lives, and they knew they were going to get it. This was the day. No-one had seen it coming.

Today, Clan Triumph would fall.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer began, "Today's match will be supervised by Ivalice's very own Judgemaster Cid!" At this an armored figure astride a massive golden war-chocobo covered in silver plate armor walked into the arena. The man on the yellow bird nodded with reverence, his calm brown eyes set around a shock of spiky brown hair and a long beard. Cid bowed to the the crowd, his voice humble but still heard amongst the attendees. "My blessings to you, people of Ivalice. I ask that you grant me the Sanction to Law with wisdom and justice. Do you Sanction?"

The crowd uttered as one voice, following the ancient creed. "We Sanction!"

A light smile crossed Cid's lips. "Then I shall be your Judge this day."

The crowd erupted into cheers, and the announcer continued. "Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer raved, "Today a Clan of prowess and skill has come to usurp the current Clan Champions! They are powerful! They are mighty! They have bested every other Clan in their fight to reach the Championship bout! People of Ivalice, I give you, Clan Rage!"

Five figures strode into the arena and were instantly met with a wave of cheers from the crowd. The fighters were a mixed group, the exact kind of balanced battle-group that won fights and took land. There were two humans amongst them. The first human, who strode ahead of his Clansmen, was a White Mage, swathed from head to toe in red silk robe and hood, carrying a golden staff that bore the head of an eagle. The second human, who bristled with mail and leather, gave off the unmistakable air of a Fighter, and he brandished his hand-and-a-half sword with a near unhealthy ferocity.

The third Clanner among them was a Viera, her rabbit ears poking out of a shock of white hair. She was clad in a suit of mail that conformed to her sleek shape, and her middle was covered by only the smallest red tunic. A rapier at her hip and a glint in her eye, the Fencer Viera drew more than a few whistles and catcalls from the crowd.

Next to her was a Bangaa dressed in simple white robes, his long head bowed. The reptile, his ears heavy with large silver earrings, did not meet the gaze of the crowd. Rather, he kept his eyes closed as he walked, and all present knew him to be a Monk. If the odd behavior did not give him away, the massive metal claws around his hands more than made up for it.

The last Clanner, a Moogle clad in the unmistakable robes of a Black Mage, followed skittishly behind. The small, furry mog attempted to keep his excitement contained, but even he could see how excited he was. He kept wringing his hands around his simple, black staff as he walked, and his whiskers twitched in anticipation.

The members of Clan Rage reached the center of the arena, and all assembled their sang their praises. The announcer's voice blared over them, frantic with excitement. "Horatio, Leader of Clan Rage, do you have any words to speak before you meet your adversaries?"

The White Mage nodded and stepped forward. The crowd cheered his name, repeating it like a chant. Horatio smiled and cleared his throat, hushing the crowd. "My friends," he began, ignoring the cheers that welled up from the crowd, "Today is a day for celebration. Ivalice, your home as well as mine, has been blessed with peace and prosperity, and you are all to thank for it." The crowd exploded with praise, and Horatio reveled in the effect his words had. "Today is a day for celebration," he continued, suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, "Because it is on this day that the Totema themselves shall choose their new Clan Champions!" The last two words Horation practically screamed at the heavens, and the crowd nearly lost their minds to the hunger for entertainment. Horation pressed forward. "Today you shall witness the fight of the century, no the millennium! Today we shall see who is worthy of being your Clan Champions!"

The crowd once again erupted into cheering, and Horatio graciously stepped back to his clansmen, who regarded him with a combination of cold respect and adoration.

The announcer's voice flooded the arena once more, barely managing to break over the sound of the crowd. "Well spoken, Horatio," the voice said approvingly, "And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you, the reigning Clan Champions for the last five years in a row, Clan Triumph!"

There was no booing. There were no bottles thrown. Not one curse was spoken. The crowd dissolved into silence, their eyes wide with what was almost fear. The team from Clan Rage bristled slightly, and even pretentious Horatio felt a chill as a large door to the arena opened, revealing nothing but darkness. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation, trying to discern a group of figures in the dark doorway.

_"BURP!"_

A massive belch split the silence, and a single figure stumbled out of the darkness. Clad in spiky black plate armor and helm, the figure lurched forward and stumbled around like a drunkard. A massive golden sword rested on his back along with a glowing silver shield that shone with mystical runes. The man stopped his uneven walk as he reached the arena's center and stood across from Horatio's team. The Paladin, for that is what he was, stood shakily on his feet and wiped an armored sleeve across his mouth before sneering with unmistakeable drunkenness.

The crowd gaped at the sight. Even the announcer's voice quavered a little as he spoke, unsure what to make of the situation. "Um... Marche, Leader of Clan Triumph?"

Marche laughed a little and spit on the ground. "That's me," he said bitterly.

The announcer went on, his voice betraying how disbelieving he was to the situation. "Yes... well, where are your Clansmen?"

Marche drew a flask from his belt and took a long swig. "Some at Keep. Some out on jobs. Some at the inn." His words slurred against each other. "They're... they're not here." A hiccup followed the declaration.

"Do you intend to fight for title and Clan Triumph alone?" The announcer could not hide how ridiculous the question sounded. A single man, drunk, against the best of this year's top Clan?

Unthinkable.

Marche looked up at the announcer's booth with a cold stare. "I _am_ Clan Triumph." The words were almost sober.

"What? Is he serious?" The baffled announcer composed himself. "As you wish. Marche, leader of Clan Triumph, do you have any words to say before we begin?"

Marche strapped the flask back to his belt and sighed. "Can we get this over with? I've got a bitch of a headache."

Cid raised an eyebrow at the young man before stepping forwards. "Very well, let us recite the Judgemaster's creed."

Horatio stepped forward, a thunderous look on his face. "This is absurd!" he shouted, causing the crowd to murmur with apprehension. "This man is a drunkard, not a warrior ready for combat. I demand that he be rescinded from the arena at once!"

Marche turned coolly to Cid and cocked his head to one side. "Any rules in the Book of Law that say I can't fight drunk? You'll find that there aren't."

Cid nodded slowly, not sure what to make of Marche. "He speaks the truth, Horatio," he says evenly, "There are no rules against Marche fighting while intoxicated." Cid turned his gaze back to Marche. "However," he said, his voice laced with disapproval, "I will say that I am disappointed in such conduct from a Clan Leader."

Marche shrugged. "Didn't ask you, Cid. I'm to drunk to give two shits, let alone one."

Horatio's face turned red with anger. "He is alone!" Horatio nearly spit the words. "He has no one here to assist him! This is the Clan Championship. This is supposed to be Clan fighting Clan!" There was a slight murmur of approval from the audience.

Cid sighed. "There is nothing in the Book of Law against a single entry into the Championship. If Marche wishes to fight alone, then he fights alone. It is not your decision to make." His gaze fell upon Horatio, and the White Mage stepped back at the intensity of the glare. "You are not Judgemaster." He looked at the two men and his voice was loud and stern. "I hereby declare this match Sanctioned by the Book of Law! The Laws set for today are simple: there are to be no Anti-Law cards used for the duration of the battle. Anything else is Sanctioned. Failure to comply with the Laws for today will result in heaviest of the Sanctioned punishments." His steely gaze rested on both Marche and Horatio. "Are said Laws clear?"

Marche nodded slowly and drew his sword and shield. "Clear as Moogle vodka."

Horatio looked repulsed. "Judgemaster, do you really intend to let this man-" his words were cut off by a glare from the Judgemaster. "I mean, yes, I hear the Law."

Marche laughed bitterly. "You're fuckin' annoying, Horatio."

Horatio looked over at his enemy, the accursed Marche of Clan Triumph. He could smell the alcohol on him. Marche's once grandiose blonde hair had been shave down to the shortest of crew cuts, and a blonde goatee sat on his face, all but drenched in whiskey. His bright blue eyes were muddled in seas of alcohol. Horatio smirked. "So be it," he breathed at Marche, his voice dripping with venom, "A lone drunkard will prove easy enough to quash. Enjoy your standing while you can, Marche, for it will soon fall before the might of Clan Rage!"

Marche sniggered. "Angry little shit, aren't you?"

Horatio's hands balled into fists as he took his position behind his Clanners, the White Monk, Fencer, and Fighter taking point while he and the Black Mage stayed behind to support. They would quash this arrogant pustule under their might, and all of Ivalice would be there to see it. It would be bliss.

Cid raised his hands into the air, his arms flowing with blue magic. "I declare this match Sanctioned!" he shouted as the Aura of Preservation descended on the fighters, preserving their life-force. "No man shall fear death! Let the Championship begin!"

The crowd roared in excitement as the fight began, their earlier uncertainty replaced with raucous shouts and cheers. The time had come.

Marche would soon fall.

Horatio's Fighter charged forward with an air-splitting battle-cry, his sword held high over his head and a snarl on his face. The Fighter brought his blade down on Marche, only to discover how Marche had swayed to the side in a drunken dodge, missing the blade by mere moments. The Fighter's eyes went wide as Marche smashed his shield into the man's face, knocking him to the ground with a single blow. Marche swung his sword down on the fallen Fighter and slammed the weapon onto the Fighter's head. The sheer force of the blow was enough to knock the Fighter out; the only thing keeping his head from being cloven in two was the Aura. The crowd gasped at this decisive, unforeseen knockout.

The Fencer growled furiously and made a rush at Marche, the White Monk at her side. Together, the two Rage Clan unleashed a flurry of blows on the drunken Clanner, only to watch unbelieving as Marche blocked, parried, and side-stepped the blows with techniques muddled by booze. It would have been almost comical had the two had not been so outclassed.

Marche swung his sword in a horizontal arch and smashed against the side of the Monk's head, knocking him to the ground with a heavy blow. The Monk, injured, crawled towards Horatio, silent. The Fencer snarled and jumped back from a second drunken sweep, giving the Black Mage a clear shot at Marche. Fire lept from the Moogle's staff and smashed into Marche with elemental fury, engulfing the young Paladin in flame.

Horatio used the opening to cast Curaga on his downed Monk, bringing the Bangaa back from the brink of defeat. The Monk was bathed in healing light as Horatio healed him with his powerful display of White Magic. The Monk and Fencer turned to where the Black Mage was pummeling Marche with fire spells and rushed back into the fray. The Black Mage stopped his relentless assault so his fellows could close in. The smoke from his attacks was thick, and it was difficult to discern what was happening through the ash.

All the while the crowd cheered on. The smoke obscured the fight from view, but not its sounds. The sound of fierce battle brought the crowd to its feet. The knew that soon the dust would clear and Marche would be defeated at the feet of Horatio and his Rage.

The Fencer suddenly flew out of the smoke in a battered heap and landed at Horatio's feet. Her armor was dented and torn, her body bruised. Horatio took a step back, fear beginning to creep into his face. "Sholt!" he shouted to the Monk, "Disperse the smoke!"

A gust of magical wind sent the obscuring smoke scattering in all directions, revealing the arena once more. The Monk barely had time to look over at Horatio before a blast of Holy energy smashed into him and dropped him like a stone.

Marche strode forward, his walk a little muddled, and charged at Horatio and the Black Mage. His sword held aloft, Marche smashed into the Black Mage and knocked the Moogle aside with a drunken snarl. The Black Mage, not used to physical combat, crumpled instantly under the charge.

Horatio dropped to his knees in fear, unable to comprehend what had just happened. His team, the best of his Clan, had just been bested by a lone Paladin who was too drunk to even walk straight. It was impossible.

Unthinkable.

Marche looked down at the stunned White Mage, a look of contempt on his face. "Idiot." Marche lifted his sword high up into the air, the golden blade glittering in the light of the day. The crowd went silent.

Marche grinned and sheathed his sword, still looking down on Horatio. "You're not good enough." He balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it across Horatio's face. The blow knocked him to the ground with a sickening '_crack!' _that made the audience cringe. Horatio dropped silently, unconscious before he hit the ground. All the rage was drained from him in that single blow and he faded into the sleep of the defeated.

Marche looked up at the eyes boring into him. Not a word was spoken.

Triumph.

Marche lifted his sword over his head in drunken stupor, a moronic grin on his face. "I win! Clan Triumph is Champions!" He allowed pride to wash over him. That sense of pride did not dissipate, not even when Marche pitched forward and vomited onto his boots. He was the best.

Shara was going to fuck his brains out.

* * *

><p><strong>LM here,<strong>

**Okay, so this one kinda came out of the blue. I loved FFTA when I was younger, and by the time I finally set the game aside I had the biggest, baddest Clan anyone had ever seen. A lot of people didn't like FFTA, but I did, and that's why this story exists. I have no idea why, but the Marche/Shara pairing has always been a favorite of mine, so I decided to do a story where that was a reality.**

**To be honest, this whole concept came around when I was going through some of my old crap during a move and stumbled across my old GBA. FFTA was in it, and I decided to switch it on and see if I could remember what all the fuss had been about. Four hours later I was still playing the damn game, and that's when it occurred to me.**

**I wanted a grownup version of FFTA.**

**Not that FFTA wasn't enjoyable in itself, but it was a kid's game, to be sure. I wanted the gritty feel of Fallout, the dark magics of Elder Scrolls, and the engaging characters of Mass Effect.**

**I wanted Final Fantasy Tactics Advance: The Later Years. I wanted Marche to be a real person, not just the physical form of childish hope and determination. I wanted his Clan to be a bunch of misfits, psychos and warmongers, rather than the band of goody-two shoes that seemed to fill my ranks in-game. I wanted the dark side of Ivalice, and I wanted to take that world apart and breathe hellish fire down its neck before the day was done.**

**And here we are.**

**Expect lots of language, mature themes, blood, and probably some sex along the way. Just as fair warning, you understand.**

**Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. As always, R&R!**

**Levi Matthews**

**(Oh, also, this marks the first story I've written in past-tense for this site. Yes, I know, you're all shocked.)**


	2. Clansmen

Clansmen

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Final Fantasy Tactics Advance or the Final Fantasy series. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Square Enix.<strong>

**Song Credti: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to Niton (The Reason) by Eric Prydz. God Bless Eric Prydz.**

* * *

><p><em>Five Years Ago<em>

* * *

><p>He was tired of it.<p>

Marche brought the cigarette to his lips, a vicious sneer coiled at the edge of his mouth. He took a deep drag and tossed it aside bitterly. It had no flavor. Nothing had flavor. Nothing in this stupid, frustrating world had flavor. Marche leaned up against the side of his house and tried to ignore the shouting going on inside. That loser cop and his mom were arguing again. Something about prison. Marche didn't care.

He was tired of it.

He hated it all. The school. The people. The snow. It was too damn cold in this place. The town he was stuck in didn't deserve the name Ivalice. Ivalice wasn't a crappy, snow-covered burb. The name Ivalice stood for something greater, something that embodied everything he ever wanted. Though Marche hadn't known it at the time, when he had brought himself out of that world and into this one, he had given up on everything that had made him strong.

He had given up on everything that made him alive.

Marche sighed pulled another cigarette out of his jacket, not caring what his mother thought. He was sixteen, for shit's sake. He wasn't a child anymore.

He hadn't been a child in years.

He was a different person now. Marche and his friends had gone to Ivalice as children, but returned with minds older than their ages would ever show. Marche had always been so timid in the 'real' world; now he was the last person anyone wanted to mess with. Long gone was the thirteen year old boy that had shattered the illusions of Mewt's fantasy world, in his place was a lanky, tough sixteen year old that had whiskers itching his face and a bad temper. Marche had taken to wearing black leather jackets and baggy jeans instead of sweaters and scarves. He had trimmed his stylish blonde hair into a manageable, intimidating short cut that infuriated his mother to no end.

His mother... Marche had done a lot to anger his mother lately.

It had started with him being tardy for class. It was only on occasion at first, but it had steadily advanced to the point where Marche was late every day, and then he simply stopped going to class altogether. His principal had threatened to report him to the police as a juvenile delinquent if he didn't stop his unacceptable behavior.

Marche wished he could still use Far-Fist.

Next had been the fights, and that's when his mother had entered the equation. The first had been a quiet thing; a boy Marche didn't particularly like had made some dumbass comment about Ritz and her hair. Marche followed the boy to his locker and smashed his face against the green metal, breaking his nose and dropping him to the floor. Marche was suspended for a week. He had whistled all the way home.

The second fight was only a week after he had returned to school. The local bullies, Guinness, Lyle and Colin, had decided it was time relive the glory days and pick a fight with the 'new kid'. Marche didn't find the name accurate or funny; it had been three years since he had moved to St. Ivalice and attended the school. Marche reminded them of that fact as he beat them down in the fresh winter snow, not even breaking stride as he smashed his way through the bullies. A local had seen the commotion and managed to pry Marche off of a severely beaten Guinness. As the local told the police, 'It was the most frightening thing I've ever seen. He just annihilated them right there on the sidewalk. His face was like stone the whole time.'

Marche smiled as he brought the cigarette to his lips. A stone. That's what he was. Fighter. Soldier. Paladin. He was rock-fucking-solid.

"Mom doesn't want you smoking."

Doned wheeled himself around the corner, a small grin on his face. Ever-bound in the old gray wheelchair he had been using since he was a kid, Doned's illness had steadily gotten worse over time. He was a shell of his former youthful self. His brown eyes, once lively and bright, had dimmed and become surrounded by dark shadows of fatigue. His thick brown hair was ratty and uncared for. His frame was thin and bony, and it didn't take a doctor to see that Doned was deteriorating quickly. He smiled a toothy grin at Marche, laughing past all the pain in his eyes. "I could tell her, you know. I could tell her you've been smoking." Marche looked at his younger brother with pity, noticing the small flecks of blood that spattered the front of his white hospital clothes. The only other piece of clothing he wore was a torn brown jacket that was too big for his small body. The jacket, all faded leather and loose strings, gave Marche the shivers.

The jacket had been their father's.

"You shouldn't be out in the cold, Doned," Marche said quietly. He sighed, defeated, and handed Doned the cigarette. "You'll have to light it yourself. Down to my last match."

Doned shrugged and brought the cigarette to his lips with one hand and pulled a lighter out of his coat with the other. Marche raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you get a lighter?" he asked. Doned shrugged and lit the smoke, taking a deep breath.

"He got it from me, Marche."

Marche turned to see Ritz walking around the other side of the house. She smiled softly at him, a knowing smile she knew he hated. "Can't a teenage girl give a boy a lighter when he's feeling down?"

Marche sighed. "I hate it when you do that, Ritz."

Ritz pouted. She was seventeen now, only one year older than Marche, but she still acted like Marche and Doned's mother sometimes. Ritz had her white hair dyed dark red that day, and her green eyes shone brilliantly under the winter sun. She was wearing a fuzzy red sweater and a pair of baggy black snow pants over a pair of white boots. Her figure was toned and fit; she had hit puberty younger than most girls, and Ritz was already looking much like the woman she would become. Despite all the changes, Ritz was as tough, reliable, and witty as ever, and Marche knew he was lucky to have Ritz as a friend.

Even if she nagged the hell out of him.

Ritz sighed and leaned up against the wall next to him. "I hate it when you fight, you dumbass. We can't act like this is the other world anymore. We're not Clan anymore, Marche."

Marche rounded on her, furious. "We'll always be Clan, Ritz," he growled at her, "Always. You. Me. Shara. Montblanc. Cheney. Roker. Gertrude. Lotte. Nate. David. Logan. Ramsey. Aurelie. Eldena. Bismark. Asimov. Tavana. Kingsley. Watoo. Satir. Crow. Genevieve." Marche recited the list of his Clansmen with precision and passion. "We're all Clan. We always will be."

Tears formed under Ritz's eyes. "They're gone, Marche. We left that world behind. You showed us that we had to. We had to come back. That's the reality. That's what we're dealing with."  
>Doned sighed and took another drag from Marche's cigarette. "Yeah, that's reality. You two don't kick ass anymore and I'm fucking terminal. Great trade, right?" His hands shook a little, and a violent cough suddenly overtook Doned, causing him to drop the cigarette. It fell from his hands and into the snow, making a light hiss before it went out.<p>

Marche and Ritz rushed to Doned's side and tried to soothe the cough out of the young man. After a few moments it passed and Doned sat back up, a grim, humorless smile on his face. "See, there you have it. I'm going to die." Doned said the words bitterly, as if they no longer mattered to him.

Marche's blood went cold. "We don't know that yet, Doned. The doctor said-"

Doned spat blood into the snow in disgust. "The doctor's been saying the same thing for years. New drug regiments. Bio-chemical therapy. Surgery. We've done it all, and none of it works. I'm tired of it, Marche. I'm tired of always being half-dead. I don't want halves anymore. I want all, or nothing." He looked off into the distance, a dreamy look on his face. "I remember when I could walk," he whispered so only they could hear him. "I remember when I could walk! I remember when I could run! I remember when I could run for days, the wind at my back and a smile on my face." He turned to Marche. "I was free, brother. I wasn't stuck in a chair. I was free! I was FREE!" He shouted the words and tried to lift himself up out of the wheelchair. His whole body shook with the effort. Marche and Ritz gaped as Doned stood up in the snow, breathing heavily in the cold afternoon and sending puffs of white breath into the air. "I want to be free again," he said calmly. "I want my life back."

Ritz shook her head. "Doned... We can't make things the way they were. The Book is gone. Mewt said it disappeared after the world went back to normal. There's no way."

Doned turned to Ritz, a knowing smile clear on his face. "Now that's not the Ritz I know. The Ritz I know would be so stubborn about wanting to go back that she'd never believe the Book was gone. The Ritz I know would fight tooth and nail for the Book, and wouldn't rest until she had it in her hands."

Ritz's eyes turned downcast. "Doned..."

Doned, his eyes bright with conviction, turned to Marche next. "And you, brother! You had the greatest Clan in Ivalice, and you let it all go so we could have our 'lives' back." Doned sneered a little. "Well they're over, brother. Our lives are over. Our childhoods are over. What are you going to do after the cops drag you off to jail? What happens then, huh? I'm stuck here with mom until by some miracle I finally die, Mewt's up and moved away with his dad and new mom to some tropical fuckin' paradise, and Ritz here can't even decide who she is anymore!"

Ritz blanched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Doned rolled his eyes. "You know exactly what I mean. I saw you in the alley the other night, Fencer-girl. You were spinning that fence-post around like it was a rapier. Don't talk to me about how things were when you can't get over just how much fun you had with all that power."

"It wasn't right, Doned," Marche breathed, and he realized for the first time just how angry and out of control he'd been acting. "It wasn't real. None of it was. It was just the dream of some little bullied kid who wanted his mom to be alive. That's all. We can't go back, no matter how much some of us want it." His fists clenched, and Ritz laid a hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Marche," she said quietly, "We'll make do. We'll move on."

Doned shook his head. "I can't believe you two!" he shouted, "You were the most powerful people in Ivalice, and you're both giving up? You were Clan fuckin' Triumph! You were the best that ever was!" Tears started to fill his eyes. Doned didn't bother brushing them away. "You made a life! Both of you did! You two had everything you could have ever wanted; family, purpose, and adventure, and you're just going to forget about all of it?" He turned to Marche, a low blow ready. "What about Shara, huh? You just going to forget about her?" He turned to Ritz, his anger overflowing. "And Cheney! Ritz, are you just going to stand there and say that Cheney wasn't real? You both had love, and you're going to just throw it the fuck away?"

Ritz's lip trembled. "Doned, Cheney... Cheney wasn't..." She burst into tears.

Marche snarled in anger. "Shut up, Doned."

Doned took a shaky step forward and pointed an emaciated finger at his brother. "No! We had a life, Marche! We had a life and I'm not going to let you forget it. If it was a dream, then it was a good dream! It was perfect! We didn't worry about stupid things like school or incurable disease or bullies. We had magic at our fingertips! We had friends, people who loved us! We were a family! We should never have come back! I'd rather live in a lie than die in reality!"

Marche bit back a sob. "If I could, I would, Doned. But I can't. The Book is gone. There's no way back." His hands clenched into fists. "I'd give it all up if we could just go back, even for a day."

Doned trembled slightly and dropped into his chair. Marche wasn't sure, but it looked like a smile was playing about his lips. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I've been selfish. I had to make sure. I just had to. I had to know if you'd want to come with me." He reached under his wheelchair and pulled out a large square package wrapped in crinkled yellow paper. It smelled musty and ancient. Marche and Ritz's eyes went wide at the sight of it.

Ritz held out a trembling hand. "Is that?..." She could not finish the sentence.

Doned nodded slowly. "I've spent the last few years trying to track it down. I couldn't find a single trace anywhere. Not at the bookstore where Mewt bought it, not online, not in any library book. It was like the damn Book dropped off the face of the earth." Doned pulled the paper off of the Book and Marche heard Ritz suppress a gasp.

There it was. Right in front of him. It was like looking at an old friend that had come to comfort him. The cover of the Book was a collage of gold and green stone that seemed to have its own inner light. The surface of the stone was covered in scripts and runes that seemed... almost familiar. In the center of the cover was a round blue gem that shined with incredible brightness, and it seemed to be beckoning Marche to open it. Marche knew that if he did he'd find a mass of magical spells, alchemical formulas, and powerful knowledge. A bead of sweat broke out on Marche's forehead.

Doned laughed. "I found it in the mail this morning." He said, looking at Marche. "There was a letter with the package. It has your name on it." Marche looked away from the Book and noticed that Doned was holding an envelope out to him. His hands were more than a little shaky as he took the letter and pried it open with cold fingertips.

_Dear Marche,_

_ I've ensured that only you will be able to read this letter. I trust you more than anyone, and therefore I entrust this Grimoire and letter to you. I know it's safe with you._

_ I'm sorry I lied to you. After... after we came back I tried my best to forget all about 'other' Ivalice. Our Final Fantasy. It's funny to think about now, but at the time it was everything to me._

_ I'm better now. I think I was sick for a long time, and something in the Grimoire tried to help me cope with it. It took you and Ritz and Doned to show me that I couldn't hide behind masks anymore; that I had to stand up and make a real life for myself instead of the one I made up. I had no right to subject you to my delusions. I had no right to make you live in my world._

_ But now, as I sit here writing, I think I'm starting to realize that it wasn't my world. It was, but not really. My world was dreams and childish things. You grew up in that mess. You made a name. You took a stand._

_ And you were right._

_ You were right to stop me. You were right to bring me. You were right to remind me that our lives were our own, and that I needed to deal with my problems instead of dreaming my way out of them._

_ That was me. You... you built a life in that place. You had family. You had friends. You and Ritz and Doned had that whole world, and I ruined it for you._

_ I found the Grimoire a few weeks after we got back to St. Ivalice. It was under my bed, hidden, __like it was waiting for someone to come along and pick it up. I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd want to destroy it. As much as I detest what I did, I know in my heart that some things are worth keeping alive. There's still a reason to believe in magic._

_ After mom and dad told me that we were moving I decided to take the Grimoire with me. In the months that followed the move I began to study it. I learned a lot from it, though there wasn't much I could use in our world. Our world doesn't have enough magic left in it to make the things we see in there come to us. We can't bring the reality of Ivalice to St. Ivalice._

_ That's right. We were all so sure that the place we had found ourselves in was a dream world, but it wasn't. It's just another place, Marche. It's another place, and it's just as real as our own world. I'm pretty sure time works at the same pace there as it does here. That means that it's only been a few years since we left, and that things probably won't have changed that much. You'd still have a life to go back to. All of you would have lives to go back to. I'm even pretty sure that Judgemaster Cid will be there; he's real in that world too. He wasn't really my dad, I know that now, I just fooled him and everyone else into thinking I was in charge. Him and my dad are the same, but they're two different people. I brought those two lives together, without their permission. That's what happens when some untrained kid gets his hands on a magic relic of untold power, I guess._

_ I'm writing this and sending the Grimoire to you because I know things aren't going well for you right now. I've been keeping an eye on the three of you, just to make sure things are going okay. I've seen what's happening to you, the magic in the Grimoire let me. I'm ashamed of what I did to make you so out of touch in our world. I'm ashamed to have given Doned that short glimpse of life without his illness. I'm ashamed to have brought Ritz to a world where she was not only accepted, but honored. I'm ashamed to have given you all a different life, only to make you fight to destroy it._

_ The truth of the matter is, I don't think you belong in this world anymore. I think that there's something better than... this, and it's out there waiting for you. I think Ivalice needs the three of you, just as much as you need it._

_ I learned the spell. I know how to send you back to your old lives. The lives you actually __wanted. The lives you need now. The people you need now._

_ I saw you the day before we left. I saw you kiss her. Shara. Your little Viera. You were crying, but you were silent. I don't think I've ever met anyone as strong as you. I'm sorry for what I did. Even if I had a thousand years I'd never be able to say it enough. I took your life. I took your love. I was selfish. You gave me a second chance._

_ Now I'm hoping I can give you one._

_ If you want to go back, all you have to do is turn to the thirty-third page and whisper "Ivalhomm." If you want to take anyone with you just remember to have them touching the Grimoire when you say the words. The Grimoire will know what to do next. It always takes us to what we want most. Remember that, Marche. It will take you where you want to be. Just think of that place and it will take you there._

_ If this is what you need, I'm glad I could help. If this isn't, feel free to send the Grimoire back. I've got a place here where it will be safe. If I don't hear from you I'll assume you left. I wish you the best of luck. I wish all three of you the best of luck._

_ I'm not going back with you. I have a place here, and in truth Ivalice isn't my world anymore. I'm not sure they'd even want me. They remember Marche and his Clan Triumph. That's what they need. That's what you need._

_ Go live your Final Fantasy._

_ Give all my best to Ritz and Doned. You are better friends than I ever deserved. Tell Cid I'm sorry for forcing a family on him, even if I didn't know I was doing it._

_ And thank you again, Marche. Thank you for giving me that second chance I didn't know I needed. Thank you, and good luck. _

_ All my love,_

_ Mewt Randell_

Marche's eyes teared up. "Thank you, Mewt," he whispered, "Thank you so much." He folded the letter and placed it into his jacket pocket. He looked up at Ritz and Doned, a sad smile on his face.

Doned's eyes were feverish in their desire. "So you know?" he asked. His knuckles went white as he gripped the Grimoire, "You know how to get us back, right?"

Marche nodded, tears under his eyes. "I do." He looked at both of them. "It was real, you guys. It was all real. Not a dream." His voice drops to a whisper. "Not a dream..."

She wasn't a dream.

Doned laughed and slouched in his wheelchair. "Well if you're going I'm going. I can't stand another minute in this chair."

Marche raised an eyebrow. "What about mom?"

Doned shrugged. "I think she deserves a break from you and me. We're not doing her any favors by being around her, that's for sure. I think mom will understand. I know I do."

Marche nodded and looked over at Ritz, his eyes blazing with certainty. "I'm going, Ritz. I can take you with me, if you want."

Ritz sobbed and a smile split her face. "We can go back? Really? I never dreamed, I mean I never would have thought in a million years that-"

Doned laughed a little. "Stow it, Fencer-girl. The faster we get back home the faster we can get all the touchy feely crap out of the way."

Ritz blushed and looked at Marche, her eyes glowing with happiness. "Okay... okay let's do it. Let's get our lives back."

Doned clapped Ritz on the arm jovially. "Now there's the spunky Fencer I remember!" He turned to Marche. "Well, brother? What do you say? You ready to get your life back?"

Marche nodded. "I've been waiting for a long time, Doned. A long time." Marche flipped the Grimoire over to page thirty-three and found the same rune that he had glimpsed all those years ago on the night before he had found his life. Marche took his friend's hands and placed them on the book along with his own. He looked at both of them. "Just think of where you want to be, and it will take you there." Ritz and Doned nodded, closing their eyes. Marche sighed and took a deep breath, remembering his Clan. His home.

His love.

Shara. He was going home to Shara. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"Ivalhomm."

The whole world suddenly became blindingly bright, and there was a sensation of _pulling_ from somewhere else. It wasn't something Marche remembered from the first time he had been transported, but he didn't mind it.

It felt like home.

* * *

><p><em>Present Date<em>

* * *

><p>"Ah, and here returnss our victoriouss drunkard!"<p>

Marche stumbled into the inn, a grin plastered on his red face. "Shut up, Roker. You owe me a gold piece."

Roker was a member of The Six, an in-Clan battlegroup comprised of the first and oldest members of Clan Triumph. Roker was a Bangaa, one of the strongest in all Ivalice. His pointed reptilian face was offset by long floppy ears and a tuft of white hair at the end of his chin. Roker was a mixed-breed Bangaa, and the color of his scales were a combination of dark browns and deep reds. Roker's tail was flecked with spots of white. His massive, hunched form would have been intimidating to anyone else, but he was Marche's most trusted friend.

Roker was the Clan's Defender and he always looked the part. Covered from head to toe in scaly black and brown Bangaa armor, Roker was instantly recognizable in any group because of the massive purple sword Estraledge strapped to his back. Roker was one of the Clan's Warmasters- the people in the Clan who were sanctioned by Marche to lead their fellows into combat. Roker was also the leader of his own personal battlegroup, The Chosen. The Chosen were made up of the Clan's Bangaa members, all of them hand-picked by Roker himself.

Roker had always been at Marche's side, ever since Clan Triumph's founding all those years ago. Even after Marche had left Ivalice to return to his world, Roker had carried the banner of Clan Triumph to glory time and time again. Three years later, when Marche, Doned and Ritz had returned to Ivalice, they had found one of the strongest Clans in Ivalice waiting to take them back with open arms. To this day Roker was recognized as Marche's second in command. Marche couldn't have asked for a more loyal friend.

Roker smiled and flicked a gold coin Marche's way and laughed as Marche flailed around to catch it. "Well," he said, that perpetual Bangaa hiss accenting his words, "it sseemss that you can fight the besst Clanss in Ivalice by yoursself, but Totema help you if you're assked to catch a ssingle coin."

Marche laughed and put the coin into his pocket. "That wasn't the best Clan in Ivalice, Roker, and you know it. Clan Rage just used a lot of Anti-Law cards and crippled the offense of the other Clans to get easy victories. That Horatio of theirs is a shrewd tactician, but by the end of the bout I had him begging for mercy."

Roker laughed and clapped Marche on the shoulder. "I'm ssure, my friend. However, I musst point out that today was a major upsset for the peopless of Ivalice. They wanted uss to losse, and we both know better than to deny the people what they want."

Marche and Roker stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. What the people of Ivalice wanted? The people of Ivalice had no idea what they wanted.

Marche walked down the stairs to the inn's lobby where a small group of his Clansmen were assembled. He pulled a golden trophy out of his bag and held it aloft for all to see. "Triumph is victorious! Strength is earned!"

"Never given!" they shouted back. Marche beamed with pride.

They were his, and they were the best.

Marche looked around the room at the Clansmen that were assembled. Though they were far from Triumph Keep, there were several of Marche's Clansmen staying at the inn. As they settled back into their games and conversations, Marche took stock of who had accompanied Roker to the Royal City.

Sitting nearby, Marche could make out the entwined forms of Nate and Lotte, the Clan's Romeo and Juliet. Lotte, a stunning dark-skinned Rava Viera with pale blue hair, was perched on Nate's lap, a contented smile on her face. Lotte was a master Summoner, White Mage and Elementalist, and she was the single most powerful Viera mage in the Clan. Her power was renowned throughout Ivalice. She was part of the Clan's mage battlegroup, The Wise. Lotte was proud of her power, but also knew that it meant that she would have much responsibility within the Clan. As a result, Lotte focused her power on magicks that would help others in combat. When she did use offensive magic, however, it was with a power that rivaled the best of the Clan's mages.

Always modest, Lotte was dressed in a simple white robe that had small red diamonds embroidered at the shoulders. The collar of the dress was cut low enough to show off her natural Viera beauty, but still high enough to preserve her modesty. She gave Marche a small smile and extricated herself from Nate's lap before walking over to him.

Nate followed her with a sigh. Nate was a human, or hume as they were called in Ivalice, and he was another one of Triumph's Six. His eyes, a fantastic dark purple color, went well with his shoulder-length black hair. Originally the Clan's premier Thief, Soldier and Fighter, Nate was now a Ninja, and his skills with dual katana were feared all across Ivalice. During combat he used a combination of Fighter and Ninja tactics to decimate the enemy, and there were few in the Clan who could match him in sheer speed or fighting prowess. Of course, that kind of ability came with one hell of an ego, and Nate was without a doubt the biggest showboat in the Clan. Ritz didn't seem to mind it, and she had chosen Nate for her personal battlegroup, The Swift.

Nate had a rather odd sense of fashion for a Ninja; instead of the usual scarves and turbans Ivalice's Ninjas were known for, Nate wore a simple pair of loose black pants and a sleeveless silver shirt. The shirt, although frail looking, was woven with mithril and magic cloth, making it nearly impenetrable to standard weapons. His pair of Masamune katana were strapped to his back and the violet blades gleamed with polished lethality. There wasn't much that Nate loved more than his swords, other than Clan and Lotte, of course.

Nate and Lotte were one of the strangest couples in Ivalice. Nate was completely and utterly devoted to Lotte. He practically worshiped her. Lotte was a free-spirit, always going where the wind and Clan took her. She often went on missions that involved travel, sightseeing, and exploration. As a result, Nate and Lotte were almost always seen traveling together; the Ninja hardly let the Viera out of his sight. Nate was miserable whenever they were separated and Marche did his best to see that he had missions that the couple could undertake together. They were a happy couple, something that Marche quietly endorsed. Love was just as important as kinship, and he was happy to see that the pair had developed a close bond.

Nate grinned at Lotte as she walked away, giving her an approving whistle. "I almost hate to see you go, love," he said with a playful growl, "Almost." His eyes took in her perfect figure with a barely controlled hunger.

Lotte shot Nate a glare. "Mind your eyes, Ninja. I'll not have foolishness in front of the Leader or the Warmaster." Lotte turned back to Marche and sniffed the air, her sensitive Viera nose picking up on the scent of alcohol quickly. "Marche?" she asked disapprovingly, "Did you drink before you went into battle today?"

Marche laughed. "Only a lot."

Roker smirked. "It iss my doing, Lotte. I made a bet with the Leader that he couldn't win punch drunk. He hass proven me wrong, once again."

Lotte frowned. "You two and your games can be so obnoxious sometimes. You do know your mate is going to be upset when she hears you've been acting out again."

Marche smiled and looked over at Nate. "Coming from the woman who's sleeping with that particular brand of egomaniac."

Lotte blushed furiously. "He's not so bad, you know? He's more of a gentleman than you'd believe."

Nate walked up to the pair, a salacious grin on his face. "Now don't go making up stories about me to ruin my reputation, love. That's not fair." He turned to Mache and clasped his arm warmly. "Leader, well done. Stuff of legends, you are."

Marche grinned. "Tell me something I don't know." The group laughed heartily at Marche's posturing. They were Clan.

They were family.

Marche excused himself and walked over to a group of his Clansmen that were gathered around a table. A male Nu Mou and a female Moogle entertained themselves with a card game while a Viera and a female hume watched with interest. Each of them stood as Marche approached, respect in their eyes. "At ease," he told them. The Nu Mou and the Moogle returned to their card game while the two women looked on. Marche pulled a chair up to the table and joined the group, glancing at the Nu Mou's poor hand. "Seems your luck isn't doing much for you, Ezel."

Ezel Berbier threw up his hands in disgust. "I know she's cheating, but I can't prove it! This is poor sport, Crow."

The Moogle girl giggled and winked at Ezel. "A game isn't fun until you make it your own, kupo. You know exactly what I mean, Mr. Anti-Law."

Ezel pouted. "Law cards and playing cards are not the same! It takes-" Ezel sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Why do I bother, Marche? Little miss psycho-Juggler here never takes anything seriously."

Crow stuck her tongue out at Ezel. "And you take everything too seriously these days, kupo! Lighten up, old man!"

Ezel smiled warmly and looked up at Marche, his eyes gleaming with humor. "She reminds of a certain diabolical Mou I knew when I was younger. Of course he was a lot smarter, and better looking."

Marche laughed at the expression on Crow's face. "Oh come now, Ezel. I can't think of anyone in the Clan who's more of a looker than you."

Ezel threw his head back and laughed heartily, using one hand to keep his tall purple hat from falling off his head. Ezel, the oldest member of Clan Triumph, was one of Marche's dearest friends. After the mess with the Totemas, Judges, and Laws all those years ago, Ezel had opted to join Clan Triumph in order to help his friends. After Marche Ritz and Doned left Ivalice he had stayed with the Clan and integrated himself into a new life. Though he still used his considerable intelligence and magical prowess to create numerous Anti-Law cards, Ezel found comfort and friendship in his life amongst the members of Clan Triumph. He naturally felt at home amongst a group of individuals who were the top of their game.

Ezel looked different than most Nu Mou; his skin was a darkened blue, his nose a bright pink, and a thick layer of orange hair covered his long tail that would drag around when he walked. Swathed in an expensive purple robe, Ezel looked every bit a Mou who was accustomed to the finer things in life.

Ezel was far from the most robust member of the Clan, but his skill with Laws and magic had proved invaluable many a time. Even better, Ezel donated the Anti-Law cards he made to the Clan, who in turned sold them for items and coin. From this source of profit came the funds Clan Triumph needed to build Triumph Keep, their island fortress off the coast of Baguba Port. All of Marche's Clansmen had immense respect for Ezel. When the battlegroup called The Professionals had been founded a year ago, Ezel had been one of the first Clanners asked to join.

And that was why Ezel was loosing a card game to Crow.

Crow was the Clan's Juggler, and the only female Moogle in the Clan. She was another member of The Professionals, and she enjoyed nothing more than tormenting her fellow Clansmen with pranks and annoyances. Though Marche received numerous complaints about the young Moogle girl, he knew that her skill on the battlefield was un-matched by any other Juggler in Ivalice, and that her quirks were easily overlooked by most of her Clansmen.

Besides, having Crow in the Clan made it easier to keep an eye on her. Marche didn't want a tiny, lethal psychopath running free around Ivalice.

Crow was tiny, even for a Moogle; the top of her head barely made it to Marche's chest. Her fur was a light brown color, and her blue eyes gleamed when she laughed, a dark, maniacal sound that grated on the nerves no matter how much time you spent around her. She had small dark-blue wings that fluttered when she got excited, which meant that Crow's wings fluttered a lot.

Crow's Juggler's kit was pretty standard; a tall, two-pronged black and blue hat with bells, a bright blue jacket that covered her middle, and a pair of puffy black pants that helped add to the illusion that Crow was a bigger target than she looked. Crow had dozens of knives attached to her belt, each one as wickedly sharp as the last. Nimble, lethal, and totally crazy had been the words Crow had written on her Clan application, and they had caught Marche's eye instantly. Marche was glad he had chosen her for the Proving that year; she was invaluable in battle and a welcome member of the Clan.

Ezel looked down at his cards, his brow furrowed. "You have the cards I need, don't you?" he asked Crow.

Crow giggled and flashed Ezel a wink. "Kupo, I've had them since you dealt the cards, you old fusspot."

Ezel grumbled and stomped away, prompting giggles from the three women at the table. The Viera woman among them was named Eldena, and she was a Red Mage. Eldena's Rava blood gave her a darker skin coloration than her Veena sisters, but her long blonde hair offset her dark coloration. She was clad in a simple red jumpsuit and white beret, and her ornate golden rapier hung at her waist by a black strap. A master White Mage, Fencer and Red Mage, Eldena was another member of The Wise, and used her formidable talents to provide suppressive magicks during combat. Though she wasn't the most powerful mage in the clan, Eldena use of rapid-cast spells and prowess with her rapier made her invaluable against other mages in combat, particularly Time Mages. Add to that Eldena's positive attitude and friendly demeanor and you had one of the most well-liked members in Clan Triumph.

Eldena looked over at Moogla with a raised eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be a little more sportsmanlike, Little?" she asked. Blanch had nicknames for everyone in the Clan.

Crow giggled. "But where's the fun in that, kupo? If the guy who goes around breaking Laws all the time can't appreciate a bit of his own humor thrown his way then he shouldn't be making those Anti-Laws in the first place, kupo."

The hume woman, Diana the Fighter, laughed heartily. "Sure," she said, her rich sing-song voice filling the room, "Give poor Ezel a hard time, even when he brings in more gold than you do."

Marche liked Diana. She was tough, honest, and had a good sense of humor; exactly the kind of person Marche respected. The newest addition to Clan Triumph, Diana had been recruited during last year's Proving. Diana was one of the best Fighters Marche had ever seen, and he didn't doubt for a moment that her skill as Fighter surpassed his own. She was a master Soldier and tactician, and her battlefield control was unparallelled. Her weapon of choice was the Adaman Blade, a sword Marche had given after she had joined the Clan. The gray-green blade was polished with care, something Marche appreciated. It showed that she could be trusted with responsibility.

As far as Marche could tell Diana never removed her armor. A leather cuirass with steel reinforcements was strapped across her ample bosom, and a mail battle-skirt covered her from the waist to the knee. Her hands were covered in leather gloves for easier movement, and her feet were encased in leather boots so as not to slow down her charge in combat. A metal cap sat on her head, flattening her coarse brown hair into matted clumps. Her light brown eyes were framed by a gentle, light-skinned face that radiated charm and honesty while hiding just how ferocious she could be on the battlefield. Diana was part of The Swift, Ritz's personal battlegroup. She had quickly integrated herself into the Clan since joining, and Marche was proud to have her in the ranks.

Crow pouted at Diana's words. "I bring in gold, kupo!" she said indignantly, "I just focus on my fighting more, that's all."

Eldena laughed at that. "Focus? You just jump into the fray with your knives and hope to kill someone by accident. That's battle-lust, Little, not focus."

Crow gave Eldena a wicked grin. "I know," she giggled, "That's why I like my job, kupo!" The group burst into laughter, and Marche was glad to see the camaraderie that Diana was sharing with her Clansmen.

"Alright everyone," Marche said after a moment's laughter, "We're done here. You've got fifteen minutes to finish any business before we head back to the port and grab a ship to the Keep. Repeat, you have fifteen minutes." Eldena and Crow nodded to Marche before walking away, talking animatedly to each other. Diana saluted to Marche before walking upstairs to gather her things.

"She is loyal."

Marche turned at the sound of a deep Moogle voice. David, the Clan's Gunner, stood there, his red eyes as un-emotional as ever. David's fur, a dark brown color, was matted with streaks of black that gave the Moogle a menacing look. His wings, which were a blood red color, sat quietly on his back. Marche couldn't remember ever seeing them move.

David's rifle, Blindsnipe, sat quietly on his back. Even though the weapon was nearly as long as David was tall, David showed absolutely no strain when carrying or using the legendary rifle. A simple black cap covered David's head, and his frame was encased in a black jumpsuit covered in ammo pouches. His hands and feet were covered in reinforced black leather, giving him maximum movement while still providing a little armor. Marche knew that David wore a mithril vest under his gear to protect him from enemy attacks; the garment had saved the Moogle's life on more than one occasion.

David was still a mystery to Marche, even though he had been with the Clan for over eight years. The Moogle had just appeared one day, around the time that Marche had struck down the Totema Famfrit and first learned how to escape Ivalice. David had shown up at an inn the Clan had been staying at and asked to join. David's incredible skill with firearms made Marche's decision easy, and since then David had proven an incredible asset to the Clan's firepower.

However, despite David's amazing combat prowess, he was far from the most social member of the Clan. Although he was a Warmaster and the leader of The Professionals, David rarely engaged in the supportive camaraderie that the rest of the Clan's Warmasters did. Rather, David was stoic and quiet, relaying orders with focus and precision, and he showed little emotion in or out of combat. His attitude was cold, calculating, and though his loyalty to the Clan was without question, Marche knew that David was a ruthless killer. Marche was always cautious around the Moogle; there were times that David would disappear for days at a time and return with no explanations. Sometimes Marche would hear about a Leader from a rival Clan turning up dead around the time of one of David's disappearances, but he could never find evidence to correlate the incidents.

"What do you mean?" Marche asked quietly. David shrugged, a simple gesture that still gave Marche a sense of unease.

"It is as I said. The Fighter is loyal. She worships the ground you walk on. She believes you are the single greatest aspiration a hume can hope to become. She is loyal. She is useful."

Marche looked away from David's intense glare. The Moogle disturbed him; his manner was cold, his mind analytical, his ideas brutal. Add to that the fact that David never added the standard Moogle adage 'kupo' to his sentences, and it was almost like the Gunner was a robot. "Don't talk about Diana like she's a tool, David."

The Moogle cocked his head to one side. "We are all tools, Leader. Tools for the Clan. It is not intended as insult. We all serve Clan. We all serve you."

Marche rounded on David, an angry look on his face. "Stop saying that. You don't serve me. We're all in this together. Nobody in the Clan is better than his brother. We're all Clan, and we all have our parts to play. "

Something flashed in the Moogle's eyes. Amusement? "Yes we do. We have our parts to play. For the Clan."

Marche rubbed his forehead; he wasn't going to play David's mind games today. "Enough, Gunner. Gather your belongings and be read in ten minutes. We leave for the Keep."

David nodded. "Of course. I am ready." The Moogle glanced out of a nearby window. "I tire of this place. A city built in a Palace. A Palace built on lies. A place of Evil."

Marche didn't bother responding. David was acting extra-weird today. He strode upstairs and into his room, grabbing his pack and a few bottles of wine he had bought from the local markets. He dug into his pack and pulled out a small topaz arm-ring, the same one Shara had give him all those years ago for helping her and Ritz during battle. He smiled as he remembered how angry Ritz had been with him for stealing her bounty, and how enamored he had been with Shara when they had first met. Marche took off his right gauntlet and placed it into his pack before clasping the arm-ring to his wrist. The engraving was still there, the same words she had given to him all those years ago before he had left Ivalice.

_I Am With You. Always._

Marche grinned and finished packing before heading down the stairs. His Clansmen were all waiting for him, eager to return to the Keep. Ezel grinned at Marche as he approached. "Now I must state again that there will be absolutely no foot racing! This old man can't keep up with you youngsters like he used to."

Marche laughed. "No worries, Ezel."

"We'll give you a head-start."

* * *

><p>"Run now, Lawbreaker. I'll give you a head-start."<p>

The Bangaa looked up at the Judge, his eyes filled with uncertainty. The Judge was a massive metal juggernaut atop his war chocobo, and his silver armor glinted with polished intimidation. A massive black lance sat cradled in his armored lap as he drummed his fingers against the mighty weapon. "I said run, you pathetic cretin. I'll not abhor your kind in my presence any longer."

The Bangaa shook his head in mock confusion. "I... I know I broke Law, Judge-hume. I have yellow card againsst me. You take me to Ssprohm, yess? Put me in jail? I learn thiss time, I promisse."

The Judge growled and shifted in his seat. "You? Learn? Do not lie to me, filth. I know who you are. You are the notorious criminal Julian, who continues to find a way out of Sprohm prison in order to continue your little spree of theft and murder."

The Bangaa hid a smirk. "I do not know what you mean, mighty Judge. I am ssimple Bangaa, not ssmart enough to do ssuch thingss. I am sstupid. I broke engagement Law in fight with Clan. Law ssaid no White magickss. I ussed White magicks. Broke Law. Take Julian to Ssprohm."

The Judge removed his helmet and placed it on the back of the chocobo's saddle. He glared down at Julian with fierce red eyes framed by a shock of midnight black hair. A savage scar split the Judge's face from top to bottom, a scar that made his already thunderous face even more intimidating. "I said run, filth. I will give you no more warning."

Julian perked up. "Judge let Julian go? Judge let him go? No Ssprohm? No card?"

The Judge smiled. The smile itself was cruel, dark and should have been a warning, but Julian paid it no mind. "No, Lawbreaker. No Sprohm for you. Not ever again."

Julian bowed, an overly showy gesture that was infuriating to look at. "Thank you, my Judge-friend. You have done Julian a sservice thiss day. I sshal not forget it." With that the Bangaa began to jog off into the distance, a smile on his face.

The Judge sighed and planted his helmet back on his head. There was no sport in a creature this abhorrently stupid. "We take what we can get," he breathed. The Judge hefted his lance one-handed and, with a single fluid motion, threw it after the Bangaa.

There was no Aura. There was no chance of survival.

The black lance struck Julian in the back of his head and pinned him to the ground. The Judge laughed quietly before patting his chocobo in a way that started the bird forward. The chocobo trotted over to Julian's corpse, and the Judge didn't even bother dismounting before yanking the lance out of the broken body. The Bangaa's blood gleamed off of the weapon's point, and the Judge brought it up to his face. He licked the side of the weapon, relishing in the taste of warm, fresh blood against cold steel.

"Satisfying."

Judge-Superior Michael Iron looked down at the body with distaste. "A waste of flesh," he said as he wiped the remaining blood from his lance. "But Justice is satisfied. One less Lawbreaker." He looked out onto the horizon, and the sun gleamed fiercely against his red eyes. "Still."

"More where that came from."

* * *

><p>And there it was, Triumph Keep.<p>

Marche and the others took the boat from Baguba Port and headed for the formidable structure in the distance. All black stone and spiky battlements, Triumph Keep was the most impressive castle this side of Ivalice; only Bervenia Palace and the Ambervale Manor could compare in splendor. As for defensibility, Triumph Keep was modeled after Sprohm prison and Judge's Pinnacle, the two most fortified buildings in Ivalice. That being said, the defenses at Triumph Keep were near-insurmountable by any means; the entire fort was surrounded by fields and flat-lands, and Keep itself sat near the back of the island. Marche signaled the watchtower and winced as the massive metal portcullis screeched open, a testament to the resources that Clan Triumph had at its disposal.

They left the boat and Marche watched his Clansmen disperse into the Keep. He was glad to be home, but that always meant he would get saddled with more administrative duties. Still, it was good to be back. Marche turned as a Bangaa walked out of the watchtower. "Leader, Sshara wisshess to sspeak to you. Sshe sseemed rather angry, if I may ssay sso."

Marche sighed. "Something I did, right?"

Ramsey the Gladiator shrugged. "News travelss fasst from the Palace thesse dayss, Leader. Sshe heard all about the fiassco at the Tourney. We all did."

Ramsey was one of Roker's Chosen and the Clan's sole Gladiator. A master Warrior, Ramsey had been recruited into the Clan during the battles against the Queen all those years ago. Ramsey was a Bangaa Faas, one of the more athletic of the Bangaa breeds. His scales were a shiny bronze color and enhanced the look of his thin, muscular body. Ramsey's armor was typical for a Gladiator; an un-armored chest, heavy metal gauntlets and leg greaves, un-armored feet, and a black Gladiator's helmet. Wearing the helm itself was considered a type of test for a Gladiator; the heavy metal mask covered the face, head and shoulders completely, and the flanged cap on top of the helmet was designed to deflect the impact of sword strikes. It wasn't an easy getup to wear while fighting, but Ramsey pulled it off with that typical Gladiator style that was admired across Ivalice.

Ramsey wasn't the strongest of the Clan's Bangaa, nor was he the smartest or most skilled. What set Ramsey apart from his fellows in the Clan was his sheer speed. The Gladiator could easily outdistance any member of the Clan in moments, and his physical attacks were blindingly fast and almost un-stoppable. Ramsey carried the mighty Ebon Blade as his weapon, and used one of the fabled Sacri shields to aid his defense.

Due to his speed, Ramsey was often assigned as Clan Triumph's messenger. Ramsey relished in his work for the Clan, as oftentimes he would be attacked by rival Clans, monsters, or bandits. Ramsey was accustomed to combat without Laws, and often trained his new Clansmen in the art of Lawless fighting. The Gladiator was one of the most active members of the Clan, and Marche saw to it that Ramsey was kept busy. He knew that there wasn't anything that the Gladiator loved more than hard work.

"Ssay, Leader," Ramsey asked heartily, "Any chance I can get off guard duty? The Keep iss never attacked; and any who tried would be the greatesst of foolss." The Gladiator's words sounded metallic through the grating in his helmet.

Marche nodded. "David's back so I'll have him come relieve you. Get some rest, then report to Roker for your next assignment."

Ramsey grinned. "Of coursse, Leader. You have my thankss." Ramsey saluted and walked back to the watchtower, humming as he went. Marche smiled for a moment before remembering the dreaded scolding he was going to get when he bumped into Shara.

Time to play Thief.

Marche crouched and began to sneak through the halls of the Keep and towards his room. The Keep was large enough that each of Marche's Clansmen had their own separate rooms. Each room was fully furnished and had ample space for any personal additions or modifications. Diana, for instance, had half of her room being used as space for a combat practice room. There were larger rooms for the couples, ensuring that everyone in the Clan had their space. Marche had learned a long time ago that people performed at their best when they had lots of room and plenty of personal freedoms, and he endorsed personalization and relaxation while off-duty. This practice made Clan Triumph one of the most efficient fighting Clans around; Marche's Clansmen were always well-rested before battle and ready for anything.

Marche bumped into David along the way to his room and told the Moogle to relieve David from his post. David nodded, emotionless as ever, and proceeded to the Watchtower. Marche rolled his eyes and continued down the hall to his room, and he furtively placed his hand on the ornate metal handle that protruded from the carved wooden door. Marche grinned slyly as he opened the door without a creak; he was going to make it!

"Marche Radiju!"

Marche winced at the sound of Shara's voice. She had yelled at him. Damn everything, she had yelled at him.

He was screwed.

He opened the door and adopted a defensive posture. "Shara? Honey? I'm home." His voice was cautious, timid.

"Get in here right now, Marche!"

Marche sighed and walked into the room, his head hung low. "I'm sorry, Shara. I was just being stupid, that's all."

"Oh, I know Marche. I know."

Marche's head popped up at the sound of Shara's voice. She didn't sound angry anymore. She sounded sexy.

"You've been stupid since the day I met you, Marche." Shara said as she approached. She was as stunning as ever; her white hair cropped short, her piercing green eyes, and her light brown skin all adding to her natural beauty. Her long brown ears curved slightly backwards, the ends tipped with dark brown fur. She was wearing a short robe that was made out of dark green silk. Marche had given it to her as a birthday gift. She grinned at the stupefied look on his face. "Everything alright, dear?" she asked playfully as she walked up to him and placed a hand on his armored chest.

Marche grinned and leaned forward. "Better now, anyway." Their lips met hungrily, and Marche almost lost himself right there. It felt so damn good to be home.

Shara pulled away suddenly, her face scrunched in disgust. "You still smell like booze, Marche. Clean up."

Marche grinned salaciously and walked over to a nearby sink and flipped a valve. Hot water rushed out of the faucet and he splashed his face vigorously. You had to love those Moogles and their tinkering; plumbing was a very common reality in Ivalice. "I'm sorry about that, dear," he said, still smiling. "I got a bit carried away at the Tourney."

Shara crossed her arms, and Marche noted with some concern that the frown on her face deepened. "A bit carried away? From what I've heard, you did a fine job making a complete ass out of yourself. Started the match with a belch and ended it with vomit, am I right?"

Marche dried his hands on a nearby towel. "You throw in the fact that your man took on this year's top-rated Clan by himself and won, and yeah, I'll back that one up." He walked over to her, concern on his face. "This isn't about the Tourney, is it? You wouldn't be this upset about me and Roker fooling around. What's on your mind? Talk to me." He wrapped his hands around her waist and held her close.

She placed a hand on his arm. "It's our anniversary, Marche. It's been seven years today since we... well, you know. I almost thought you were going to miss it." She closed her eyes with a sigh.

Marche was quiet for a moment. "Come with me," he told her, his voice calm and composed. "There's something I think you should see." He took her hand and led her off to the battlements, ignoring her protests.

He held her close and pointed her towards the sea, which had become a gorgeous orange color as the sun dipped below the horizon. "I love you, Shara," he said quietly, looking her in the eyes. "I always will. And I'm sorry if it seemed like I wouldn't make our anniversary. I just had to win that Tourney to get the money for your gift." He points out into the sunset, a smile on his face.

"Watch."

Shara gasped as tendrils of purple magic floated upwards from the sea and into the sky. They slowly painted the horizon with streaks of violet and lavender. They floated towards the heavens to form lines, shapes, figures. Tears sprang up in Shara's eyes as the lines folded on themselves to create a single word, a proclamation stretched across the amber skyline.

_Yours_

Marche smiled. "Glad those Nu Mou can spell right." Marche turned back to Shara and gazed lovingly into her eyes. "You're my everything, Shara. You always have been, even before I met you." He held her hands in his, his eyes glowing in the dying day. "I always thought that I came back for the Clan, the fighting, the freedom. I was stupid. Well, I'm still stupid, but that's another kind of stupid altogether."

Shara smiled brilliantly. "Marche..."

Marche kissed her hand. "I was wrong, Shara. I didn't know it at the time, but I came back for one thing, and one thing only. You." He pulled her close and nuzzled the side of her neck. Shara closed her eyes and purred lovingly. Marche whispered into her ear. "I'd give up everything, all the things that make me strong, just to know for a single moment that you love me." He kissed her cheek before bringing his face around to meet hers. "You're my reason for existing, Shara. You're the reason I'm strong. You're the reason I'm here."

"You are the reason why I am."

And then, tears in her eyes, Shara pulled him close and kissed him. It was the same kiss they had shared all those years ago, the first kiss, the first taste of love and passion.

It was perfect.

She broke the kiss, hating herself for it, and looked into his gentle eyes. She was his, and he was hers. They were. She brushed a tear from her face and grinned hungrily at him. "Well played, Marche Radiju. You almost had me for a moment." She placed a hand on his arm. "But you're forgetting something." Her robe dropped to the ground, and she smiled wickedly at him.

"I always win."

It was then that Marche realized that winning wasn't everything.

* * *

><p><em>Four years ago<em>

* * *

><p>"Shit, kupo."<p>

Montblanc ran through the darkness. His small, furred feet bounded across the hard ground. His light-brown fur was covered in dirt and filth, and his grey eyes were wide with fear. His green jacket was torn and bloody, a grim reminder of the terrible battle he had been fighting for hours. His small orange wings fluttered weakly behind him. He was exhausted, but the thought what chased after him drove him forward.

He ran faster than he ever imagined he could. There was a monster behind him, something horrible, something not even he had seen. He had to warn Marche.

One of their Clansmen was a demon.

The Test, the damned Test. It was madness. He had no idea why he had agreed to create it, let alone how the rest of his Clansmen had survived the trial. The very idea of it now chilled Montblanc to the bone. It was horrid, more horrid than anything he had ever experienced before. No Totema was more frightening than this. No demon Queen was more cruel. There was nothing to describe the kind of fear he felt.

It had started out as a good idea. Clan applications had been created in order for Marche, Ritz, Roker, and Montblanc to choose which of the Hopefuls would be tested. The Proving, Law Sanctioned arena combat, was used to determine which Hopeful would be the next possible member of the Clan. It was a great way to find the best potential Clansmen.

Then the demon had come forward with his idea of the Test.

The Test had been a radical departure from the application or the Proving, but it was endorsed by the Clan for one reason: it would ensure that the Clan grew at a reasonable pace. Montblanc had actually been excited about the Test at first, and after watching his Clansmen complete the Test with full success, Montblanc was proud to have added it to what was now being called the Trial.

The Test was simple. A Hopeful was sent into a Jagd at nightfall with only his standard equipment, and was told to survive a night in the Jagd. That part of the Test alone was fraught with danger; monsters, murderers, and all manner of dark things lived in the Jagds, and any number of them would be stalking the Jagd at nightfall.

However, the Test also added another danger to the Jagd. A lone Clanner was randomly chosen and sent into the Jagd to Test the one being Tested. If the Tester subdued the Hopeful, the Hopeful was to be killed. The Hopeful could kill the Tester, however, and thus the Test became a life or death game of cat and mouse. Though there had been some trepidations about the idea at first, support for the Test grew until each member of Clan Triumph had sworn to commit to the Test.

All of Montblanc's Clansmen had made it through the Test without dying. Marche had been the first, and he was Tested by Shara. Shara had followed, and she had been Tested by Cheney. Cheney was Tested by Gertrude. Gertrude was Tested by Aurelie. Aurelie was Tested by Roker. Roker was Tested by Nate. Nate was Tested by Genevieve. Genevieve was Tested by Ezel. Ezel was Tested by Crow. Crow Tested Azimov. Azimov Tested Eldena. Eldena Tested Kingsley. Kingsley Tested Ritz. Ritz Tested Logan. Logan Tested Lotte. Lotte Tested Tavana. Tavana Tested Bismark. Bismark Tested Ramsey. Ramsey Tested Satir. Satir Tested Watoo. Watoo Tested David.

And now Montblanc was being Tested.

Jagd Helje did nothing to console his fears. Dark, dead and hateful, the Jagd itself was a desert of Lawlessness, where only the strong, smart, and cunning could survive. It seemed like the perfect place to stage the Test; a place where the Judges could not interfere, where the true mettle of any Clansmen would be tested.

It was madness.

Montblanc ran though the Jagd, trying to keep his distance from the demon. A gunshot exploded near the ground next to him, and he came to a sudden stop. There was no cover for miles, and he had no idea how long it was till the sun came up. "Funny, kupo," he said weakly, "Time Mage who doesn't know what time it is." Montblanc sighed. He was going to have to face his fears.

"Come get me, kupo."

Montblanc turned as the demon walked towards him. The demon raised its rifle and fired a shot that skimmed past Montblanc's face and drew blood. His cheek stung with it, but Montblanc didn't blink. He raised his staff and unleashed a bolt of lighting so powerful that the ground shook with it. The lightning screamed towards the demon, but the demon merely sidestepped the attack. He raised his rifle again, and fired another shot.

Montblanc cast a Slow spell around the bullet and dodged the shot before sending an ice spell towards the demon. The demon cursed quietly as the ice struck him, holding him fast to the ground. He glared at Montblanc with his soulless red eyes and tried to bring up his rifle.

Montblanc cast Haste on himself and sprinted off into the distance. He ran until the spell wore off and his body shuddered weakly. He couldn't go on. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't brave enough.

"Funny ending, kupo," he said to himself. "Took down the Totema, took down the Queen, took down everything Ivalice threw at me, kupo. Can't even last a kupo night in a Jagd."

He could here the footsteps behind him. The demon had tracked him down. "You are not strong enough, Montblanc. You have no place in the Clan." Its voice was cold, unemotional.

Montblanc scowled. No place in the Clan? It was his Clan, kupo! He had started it! He had saved Marche and helped him find his friends and get back to his home. He had done everything within his power to help his friend, and now he was going to die alone in this hellish place.

Montblanc spit on the ground and turned once more to face the demon. The rifle was raised, the eyes were hard, and Montblanc knew there was no running this time. He raised his staff, summoning the powerful magicks that had made him one of the most powerful Moogle mages in Ivalice. He was Montblanc, master Time Mage of Clan Triumph. He would face this demon, and bring it down.

Montblanc cast demi, and the dark spell smashed into the demon with debilitating force. The demon grunted and fired a shot, but Montblanc was already out of the way. He cast a fire spell on the demon and watched as he was engulfed in flames. Montblanc charged into the fire, his staff held high, ready to deliver the death-blow. He was power. He was strength. He was bravery.

He was Triumph.

'Blam!'

The sound of the shot rang out in the darkness. Montblanc stumbled forward, a look of surprise on his face. He looked down and saw the hole in his jacket. It was such a small thing, how could it have stopped him? And why did blood pour from it like rushing water?

Montblanc's staff fell from his hand and clattered against the desert ground. The sound was so loud in his ears. It knocked the strength out of him. He fell to his knees, his mouth agape. His gray eyes stared out towards the horizon.

The sun began to rise from the edge of the earth.

Montblanc smiled a little, blood trickling out of his mouth. He survived through the night. He looked up as the demon strode into view, its red eyes glaring quietly down on him. He had survived the night. He was safe. He was done.

He was triumphant.

Montblanc's pride swelled in him as he fell to the ground, his eyes shining in the rising sun. As death overtook him, Montblanc laughed weakly.

"I win, kupo..."

A tear fell from his eyes, and Montblanc breathed his last.

* * *

><p>David looked down at the corpse at his feet. The Test was done. Montblanc had failed. He was strong, but he had not been strong enough. David didn't sigh, he didn't blink back any tears. He simply loaded his rifle and looked into the sun. Marche would be wanting a report soon, and it was now David's duty to give that report.<p>

David turned back to Montblanc's body. Something tried to well within him, but he quickly pushed it back down. He had no time for foolishness. He had done his duty, and he had done it for the Clan. He had not failed anyone.

David reached down and closed Montblanc's eyes before turning and walking off into the desert morning. It was fitting. Weakness had been purged. Clan had been forged anew.

His Clansmen had been re-born.

* * *

><p><strong>LM here,<strong>

**Hey there, so glad you could drop by. This chapter was a great exercise in character description and character interaction in past-tense, and really allowed me to build up Marche's Clansmen. By the end of FFTA, my Clan was 24 strong and each member was the master of at least 1 Job. The names I've used, with the exception of Crow, Genevieve and Diana (Who are Female in the story), were all names of Clan Triumph's members in-game. I lost Montblanc pretty early on during the course of my save-game, and Roker took over his role during the cut-scenes. I decided to incorporate those happenings into this story, with a few creative liberties, of course. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the read, because I enjoyed the write! **

**R&R! **

**LM**


End file.
